Scripted to Slay

by ACF Bookens

  "But you don't know if any of these other people were murdered, right?" Tuck's question brought me out of my own pride with a thud.

  "No, we haven't found any other reports of murders that match our missing people. Doesn't mean they're not there, but probably not. As soon as your report hit the online records, our team flagged it because of the description. That is one thing – people with a physical disability often stand out." She sat back down and stared at the whiteboard.

  I followed her gaze and studied her notes for a moment. "So we really only think we have one murder, right? Since, as you said, your team would have probably already flagged other murders of disabled people?

  "That's what I'm thinking," Effie said. "I just don't know what that means."

  Tuck spoke softly. "Seems to me that all the disappearances are connected, even Cassandra's. But something went wrong here. Maybe someone found her, and they couldn't find everyone else."

  I nodded. That seemed right, somehow, but not completely so. I was loath to correct the sheriff, but they'd let me sit in, so I figured I had some room to speak. "Right, but the other people haven't been found, even by the FBI. So either they're really good at hiding, which could be the case, or once they were gone, the person who killed Lizzie didn't care enough to track them down."

  "Someone cared about Cassandra, though, wanted to find her," Tuck continued my train of thought. "Wanted to find her so that they could kill her?"

  "Maybe," Effie said, "or maybe they wanted to find her and bring her back. Maybe the thing that's different is that the killer didn't actually want Cassandra to disappear. Maybe they wanted her to come back, and when she wouldn't . . ."

  We let the rest of her sentence hang in the air.

  Finally, Tuck said, "We're looking for the person who wanted to find Cassandra badly enough to hunt her down."

  Effie nodded, and I felt my stomach sink. That someone had found her . . . and killed her

  * * *

  I left Tuck and Effie talking law enforcement strategy in the breakroom and headed back out on the floor. I had appreciated the chance to brainstorm with them, and I was glad I'd gotten to share what I did know. But the whole idea of someone tracking Lizzie – I really needed to start calling her Cassandra – down and, for whatever reason, killing her, was bringing up memories I tried not to engage if I could.

  Back in high school, this guy had stalked me. In comparison to the way they depicted stalking on TV – whole rooms full of pictures with the eyes blacked out and stuff – my situation had been mild. But it was still terrifying to have him show up outside my bedroom window in the middle of the night, and when he and his girlfriend had appeared at my dorm one night only so he could try to follow me to my room while she sat in the lounge, I began to get really scared. Finally, my mom had answered the phone when he called one night and told him that if he ever contacted me again, she'd have him arrested. And that had slowed him down . . . until social media, but by then, I could block him, and block him I did.

  As I wandered the store floor and reshelved books, I kept thinking about Lizzie, about why she had run. Maybe it had been a part of this whole weirdness about using prosthetics or not, but I didn't think that was the whole story. It felt like she was afraid, and she'd run . . . for her life, maybe.

  At five, I sent Marcus home with my deep gratitude for covering for me so much over the past few days. "Take tomorrow off. You, too, Rocky. I’ll cover the cafe," I said as they walked to the door together. "I've got the shop and the cafe tonight. It's going to be slow."

  The crisp cold had returned as the sun had moved closer to setting, and with sunset coming at four thirty, the streets would be pretty empty in our quiet town. I'd probably get a couple of college kids from Salisbury, and maybe a local or two out for date night while the kids were with a sitter. Nothing I couldn't handle on my own. "You kids have fun," I said with full-on sarcasm as they rolled their eyes and walked to Rocky's car. They were so cute.

  I was right. The night was quiet. Made a few sales. Fumbled my way through a few espressos. Sold the rest of the Rice Krispies treats, mostly to myself. And at seven, I turned off the Open sign, set the alarm, and let Mayhem and Taco lead me whatever direction they wanted for our walk home. Mart and I had agreed to a Friends marathon starting at eight with a huge extra cheese pizza that Symeon was going to make for us, so I had a little time to wander in the cool air.

  The dogs headed me north, and at first, I thought we'd be heading straight home. But instead, they took me down some of the quiet residential streets in town. I loved these homes with the golden glow of lamps coming from living rooms, where some couples sat reading or families were curled up in front of televisions. One woman about my age stood in the middle of her living room and matched about three hundred pairs of white socks. It was fascinating, and I was glad the dogs' noses took me by again. So many white socks.

  Finally, after wandering long enough that I thought the neighbors might think we were casing their houses, I gave the dogs the cue – "Home, boys" – and they began to point their sniffers in the direction of our house. We were just making the penultimate turn toward our house when I noticed two people talking by a parked car. Normally, I wouldn't have paid much attention – well, I would have paid attention but only in a nosy way, not a suspicious one – but I saw one of the people had spiky hair, and I saw a gleam off of what looked to be wheelchair wheels.

  Quickly, I steered the dogs that way and began a random conversation with them to act as if I was totally distracted. "Any scent of squirrels yet guys? Maybe spring will come soon?" "Sasquatch been by lately. He just lives up the street you know." I rambled my way along the block trying to look entirely interested in what the dogs were doing until I came to the car where I swore Mrs. Leicht and Davis had been talking. But when I looked up, they were gone.

  I didn't want to stand still and look around. That would be far too suspicious, so I just kept talking to the pups and resumed the walk toward home. I had a moment's hesitation about going there because I remembered some story from junior high about how you should never lead the person following you to your house, but I quickly dismissed that concern for two reasons. First, I didn't think I was being followed. Secondly, in a town as small as St. Marin's, if someone wanted to know where you lived, they could just ask, well, anyone.

  Still, I was disconcerted for the rest of the walk and only kept my pace even because I knew – as clueless as they seemed – that these two ridiculous dogs would protect me if it came to it. They'd done it before.

  When we got home, though, I left the outside lights on, bolted the door behind me, and spent the first few minutes making sure the back door and windows were locked.

  As I finished my security check, Mart shook her head, handed me a glass of wine, and pointed to the plate of cheese and crackers and the bowl of popcorn before she said, "You're in danger again, aren't you?"

  I sighed.

  "Better fill me in," she said. "But before you do, let's be clear about something. I get to be Rachel for putting up with your nosiness, Chandler."

  I huffed, but she was right. I was totally Bing-ing this up.

  * * *

  The next morning by unspoken agreement, Mart and I decided not to talk about Lizzie. I think we both knew we were just spinning our wheels trying to figure anything out in the absence of some crucial information we just didn’t have, and so instead, we spent our chatter over breakfast and on the walk into the shop talking about how the "young people" were watching Friends these days but seemed to be doing so ironically, like our young adulthood was something to be mocked, not treasured.

  By the time, we reached the store, both of us were acting like we needed walkers and had lost all our teeth while saying things like, "Get off my lawn, you pesky kids" and lamenting the sad return of high-waisted jeans. "They used to be 'Mom-jeans'," Mart moaned as I unlocked the door, "and now they're trendy."

  "These young whippersnappers have no appreciation of taste," I
said as I shook my fist before flipping on the lights and laughing as Mart hobbled over to the cafe on her imaginary cane. There was a reason that woman was my best friend, and this schtick here in our middle age was a good part of that reason.

  I was still smiling as I logged into the register and walked the floor to take a quick scan of our status. The shelves looked full and neat, and something in my bones was telling me it was going to be a good day. I always liked Sundays in the shop. Mostly, they were quiet, especially in the morning when most of St. Marin's was at church, and I liked having time to talk to every customer that came in.

  The first customer in was a white guy who looked to be in his early thirties. Mutton-chop sideburns and really cute booties had me thinking of Noel from The Great British Baking Show, but I didn't mention that comparison since he, it turned out, was looking for some help picking out a romance novel for his grandmother. "She reads like the things like she's eating potato chips," he said, "so I try to take one each time I visit."

  I smiled. Romance readers were voracious, and while I didn't read many titles, I did try to stay on top of the latest trends so I could recommend well. "What kind of books is she into? I mean, I know she likes romance," I added when he raised an eyebrow. "But does she want sex or no sex?"

  To his credit, the man blushed, and I said quickly, "Okay, so sweet romance. Humor or history?"

  "Oh, Gran is really funny, so humor."

  "Awesome. I think I'd like to meet your gran," I said as I pulled Emma St. Clair's Falling for Your Best Friend's Twin from the shelf. "This one should do the trick. It's new and had me laughing out loud several times. Plus, it's a sweet story. And I think she'll like the heroine because she's a little out of the mainstream." I gave his booties a knowing look, and the man grinned.

  "Perfect," he said as we walked to the register.

  I was feeling a little smug that I'd been able to make a romance sale based on a book I'd actually read in that section when Davis rolled in the door. My mood soured at just the sight of him, and I wasn't sure why. We'd gotten off on the wrong foot, of course, but he'd apologized and been great since. But that whole crashing the burial thing just bugged me, as did his sudden ability to hang around for the service. Something just felt off.

  Still, I put on a big smile and greeted him warmly with a handshake. "What can I do for you, Davis? Here to pick up some reading?" I gestured around the store.

  "Actually, now that you mention it, maybe. Audio books?"

  I didn't carry a huge audio collection because they were so expensive to buy, and most people got theirs through the library or a subscription service. But I did have a few. "What kind of reading do you like?"

  He stared at me for a minute like I'd just asked him what his favorite flavor of blue was. But then said, "Oh, something fast-paced if you have it."

  I ran my fingers along the clamshell cases until I came to Brother Odd by Dean Koontz and took it off the shelf. "You okay with a little supernatural stuff?"

  He shrugged, and I placed the book in his hands. "This one will serve you well. Fast-paced and intriguing. Plus, if you like, there's a whole series."

  "Sounds good," he said and raised the book up. "I'll take it." He wheeled his chair toward the register. "I also wanted to ask a favor."

  I took as deep a breath as subtlety would allow and said, "Happy to help if I can."

  "I'm heading back to Boston today. Could you let the sheriff know? He has my number, and I'm available to answer questions anytime. But I really need to get back to my business."

  "Okay, I'll tell him," I said as I rang up his book and swiped his card. "But it might be a good idea for you to give him a call at the station, you know, so it's official." I really didn't like to imagine Tuck's face when I told him one of his prime suspects had left town and that I’d known. "Actually, let me just call him now, okay?"

  I picked up my phone and had just tapped Tuck's name in my contacts when Davis rolled out the door with a wave. I groaned as the call connected, and Tuck answered.

  "I tried, Tuck."

  I could hear his sigh through the phone. "What happened?"

  At least I couldn't see his expression since I told him on the phone, but given the icy tone to his voice, his disapproval came through loud and clear.

  "What did you want me to do? Tackle him? Put a boot on his wheelchair? Stand in front of him like I would a toddler heading for the street until you could get here?" I knew the sheriff was frustrated, but seriously, I'm not supposed to help with things until I am. Talk about mixed signals.

  "Any of those options would have worked," he said and let out a long whistle. "But it's okay. I know his car and plates. I'll put out the word to the Boston PD and ask them to keep an eye out. They’ll let me know if he shows up anywhere he shouldn't."

  I imagined police officers staking out his house, lots of coffee and sandwiches from one of those corner delis, and then I checked myself. Not TV, Harvey. Not TV. "Good idea."

  "I'll let Effie know, too." I could hear the clicks of Tuck's keyboard. "Thanks." Then he hung up. At least he didn't sound mad anymore.

  11

  A bit later that morning, I puttered over to Mart in the cafe and got my morning latte as I told her about what had just happened. "People need to deliver their own messages," she said.

  "Tell me about it." One woman was sitting in the window of the cafe with a stack of comic books and a cup of coffee. She was reading intently while she twisted a dreadlock around her finger. I watched her for a moment and felt my frustration fade. She was doing just what I loved for people to do – read in my store – and I couldn't stay in a bad mood when that was happening.

  The bell over the door rang, and I made my way back to the books as a trio of teenage girls headed to the YA section and started laughing and swapping favorite scenes from Leigh Bardugo's Shadow and Bone. Apparently, one of the girls – a blonde with a brilliant pink streak in her hair – hadn't finished the trilogy yet, and there was much gasping and horror over this fact from the other two, a short Asian girl with plaid pants and suspenders and a brunette with the whitest skin I had ever seen. I resisted asking if she liked vampire fiction, though, because she probably did, and she probably wouldn't get my joke.

  They were deep into a good browse and didn't need me, so I went back to the front of the store and scanned the displays. Everything looked amazing, and we'd had steady sales of the titles Marcus had chosen. I knew some of that was just the natural result of putting a book where people could find it. Some folks were bound to be interested in any title, but I knew most of those titles had sold because of the event. People liked to be prepared for new things, and while the turnout for tickets to our roller rink night was impressive, I also knew that many a St. Mariner was learning all they could about disability rights so as not to make a fool of themselves.

  I was doing the same thing when I pulled a copy of Being Heumann down and took it back to the counter to read. It was one of the prerogatives of a bookstore owner to be able to read on the job. That was a perk in and of itself, but without fail, I was always asked what I was reading when I had a book open. More often than not, the conversation that rose up out of my answer resulted in a sale of that book, sometimes the very copy I'd been reading. I was about one-third of the way through a dozen books that I'd sold right out of my own hands, and I didn't hate that.

  Today, I didn't sell the book away from myself, but I did answer a lot of questions about it as well as hand out a fair number of pamphlets about the National Disability Rights Network. And because the shop was slow, I disappeared into Heumann's story and found myself both angry and motivated to do more to make the world more accessible for people.

  First, I knew I needed to change some things in the store. So when I needed to let my eyes rest a bit, I took a walk around the shop and made a few decisions. I had put in a wheelchair accessible bathroom when I renovated the old gas station building, but it had never occurred to me that someone in a wheelchair or us
ing a walker or canes might struggle with the front door of the shop because it was heavy and not on a hydraulic arm. I was going to get that arm put in asap so that the door didn't slam shut quickly on someone.

  I also hadn't ever thought about putting braille signs up, but now I decided that I'd label the book sections as well as each door clearly so that a blind person could navigate the store more easily. Plus, I needed to beef up the audio section a bit to make my offerings for the visually impaired more robust.

  Finally, I printed up a bold, clear sign that said, "All animals welcome, especially service animals. Please let us know if your animal needs us to confine our own dogs when you visit," and looked up how to have this sign printed in braille for those with guide dogs.

  I felt a little ashamed that I hadn't thought of these things sooner, but I wasn't about to let that shame stop me from doing them now.

  Those decisions plus the steady stream of customers that started filing in as churches let out had me feeling downright gleeful by early afternoon. Books were selling. People were reading. Children were petting Taco and Mayhem and asking if they could take them home. It was a good day.

  Then, Mrs. Leicht came in, and the minute I saw her face, I knew my blissful Sunday was about to take a turn into shadow. "Hello, Mrs. Leicht," I said as she stalked over to the counter. "Anything I can help you with?"

  She saw the book I was reading and scoffed. She actually made a sound that sounded like "scoff." "Garbage," she spat.

  "Oh, I think it's really good. You read it, though, and didn't like it?" Not all books were for all people, so I tried to keep that in mind in all discussions about books people really detest.

  "No, I didn't read that. It's nonsense. All this fighting for rights." She rolled her eyes, and I wondered if she'd complete the trifecta of disdain with the raising of a certain finger, but I was spared that display when she changed the subject. "I saw you at the funeral yesterday. You bought it, huh?"